


In Ithilien

by MrProphet



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 18:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10702224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrProphet/pseuds/MrProphet





	1. The Measure

The battle was over almost as soon as it began. Even the Rangers of Ithilien could not be everywhere, and the town had no defence of its own that could fight off such a multitude of Orcs and Haradrim. The men, and women, who tried to fight were cut down, and the survivors were rounded up by the Orcs and herded towards the butcher’s wagons.

“Stop!”

The Orcs ignored the call, but drew up short when a brace of arrows slammed into the earth in front of them. They turned and faced their Haradrim allies.

“You attack us,” the lead Orc – a particularly ugly Urûk who exulted in the name of Foulgar – growled in the Black Tongue.

The Haradrim leader – Badan, a tall, dark man with braided hair – fixed Foulgar with his fierce gaze while his lean advisor, Korta, whispered a translation in his ear. When he spoke, Korta once more translated. “These are not for your eating,” he insisted.

“They are our prey,” Foulgar asserted. “All that are overthrown by the Orc is his fodder.” He stood forward, towering to his full height, although that still fell somewhat short of Badan’s six feet.

“Take the cattle and the horses for your meat, but the humans are our kin and we shall not stand for their slaughter,” Badan insisted. “ _We_  shall take them.”

Foulgar put his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I say you shall not.”

“We were promised slaves for our part in this work,” Badan insisted.

Foulgar lurched forward, drawing his heavy scimitar, but Badan sprang back out of reach and drew his own curved blade. He sidestepped a powerful swing and severed the Orc’s arm at the shoulder. Behind him, the knights of Harad drew their blades, while the archers set arrows to their bows.

Badan finished Foulgar with a thrust to the neck and then faced the Urûk’s cohorts. “You surrender these human or fight for,” he said in badly broken Black Tongue.

The orcs did not like the odds.

*

As the Haradrim loaded their new slaves into wagons, Badan drew Korta aside. “Take half of the urta and escort these wagons to the encampment at the coast. Tell my brother to return with his urta as soon as possible.”

“My lord?” Korta asked.

“As soon as they have the strength, the Orcs will kill us all and eat our bodies.”

“Then should we not stay together?” Korta asked.

Badan shook his head. “It would be wrong to slaughter these prisoners, and as wrong to leave them where we know they might be slaughtered.” He put a hand on Korta’s shoulder. “You have served me well.”

“And been amply rewarded, my Lord,” Korta assured him, bowing his head in acknowledgement of the compliment.

“Nonetheless, if I should die here I would have my debts be paid in full. You are a slave no more, Korta, and furthermore I name you my heir.” He reached out and grasped his former bondsman’s arm in friendship. “Bear my name with honour and see that my wives, children and slaves are treated well.”

“My Lord, I shall,” Korta promised. “But…”

“No buts,” Badan insisted. “We owe this to ourselves. We serve the Dark Lord in payment of our ancestors’ debts, but we of Harad are still men. Never forget that.”


	2. Reparations

It was the fourteenth day of talks and Prince Faramir of Ithilien was contemplating desperate action.

“Once I yearned for days of peace, when men might settle their difference by talk instead of war,” he complained. “Now I have those days and I would close my doors and arm my borders against all the world to have but half an hour’s silence.”

The Lady Eowyn laughed brightly. “Do you wonder now that I yearned to ride out? Who is it taxes my lord so this day? Has Lord Korta al-Badan wearied your ears once more?”

Now it was Lord Faramir who was moved to mirth. “Lord Korta speaks with the eloquence of a poet and the honest sincerity of a Halfling. It is the Lord of the West who tire me with their calls for blood and vengeance. Think they that Ithilien suffered not in war with the Haradrim? Do they believe that I sat abed and never fought, that I must be reminded of the horrors of those days?” 

He sank wearily into his chair. “I understand their anger, but do they not see the destruction they will invite if they insist on exacting harsh reparations from Harad? I was charged by King Elessar to seek an accord and a treaty with the Haradrim and they want me to bleed the Southlands dry and parcel up Near Harad for settlement.”

Eowyn poured wine for her husband and herself. “They see the wealth of the Haradrim and they are envious,” she noted, “and they anger the Lords with their pride. I have seen those we hold captive and even as prisoners they hold themselves as kings.”

“Why would they not?” Faramir asked. “Do you know how few of them were free, even as soldiers? The Lords of Harad raise their warriors from among their slaves and slaves they remain. Lord Korta was a slave until the orcs killed his master over the lives of Ithilien prisoners.” He shook his head. “You have spoken with those who were taken. What did they make of their captors?”

“They speak highly of them, as much as one ever might of a captor. Their ferocity in battle can not be questioned, but I have heard only of honour and gentility in their dealings with those they take as slaves.” Eowyn shook her head. “Few would wish to meet with their captors again, but as few truly wish for blood vengeance.”

“And what do you make of them, my Lady?” Faramir asked.

“I think that they have honour enough to treat with, and pride enough that it would be folly to abuse them in our strength. With the Shadow gone, the men of Harad have no stomach for war, but whet their appetite and we shall learn that their taste for vengeance is as keen as that of any Lord of the West.”

“The White Lady is as wise as she is brave,” Faramir sighed. “I think I am of your mind. I think it best to require that the men of Harad help with the remaking of the West and the clearing of Mordor; to ask that their soldiers and their workers help to undo the damage which they caused.”

“No reparations? No settlement?”

“Perhaps the Lords of the West should look to healing their own lands before fomenting fresh war,” Faramir sighed.

“I think that my Lord is also wise,” Eowyn said with a smile.

“Wise is as wise does,” Faramir laughed. “What is needed now is diplomacy, if I am to bring the Lords of the West into agreement.”

Eowyn lifted her glass. “To days of peace,” she proposed with a laugh.


	3. Arrangements

Bergil, Third Captain of Emyn Arnen, was tired. It had seemed both an honour and an easy assignment; to collect a princess from Near Harad and escort her through the still-wild lands of Harondor to Ithilien. Certainly there would be danger – South Gondor was a desolate domain, home to desperate bands of thieves and cutthroats, outlaws of Harad and of Umbar – but for half-a-company of the Rangers of Ithilien and half-a-company of Bergil’s own Guards, nothing insurmountable. The ride out had been hot and dusty, but not unbearable, and after three weeks the company had arrived at the Alkasr al-Badan, a high, sandstone fortress on the banks of the river Nûm.

The Alkasr was a magnificent site, a fortress to rival anything in the realm of Gondor. The outer walls of the city were more than thirty feet tall, and the citadel itself rose to almost twice that height. While most of the terrain that the Ithilien force had crossed had been arid grassland, close to the river an extensive series of irrigation channels created a wealth of green fields and orchards. Every square in the city had a fountain from which the people gathered water.

Bergil’s column made themselves known at the gate. They were led to the citadel, where the troops were shown to the barracks and Bergil and his lieutenant, Damador, were taken to meet their charge.

That was where the trouble  _really_  started.

Princess Matya al-Badan was perhaps sixteen years old and an extraordinary beauty. She was dressed in sumptuous robes and wore a diadem and many necklaces of gold and precious stones. She sat beside her father’s throne and a tall, powerful woman stood behind her chair, clad in richly-decorated leather armour and wearing a sword at her hip.

“Lord Korta,” Bergil said, bowing before the ruler of Alkasr al-Badan. “Highness.”

Lord Korta was the model of a perfect host, asking after his old friend, Prince Faramir of Ithilien and the land itself. “It is a beautiful country,” he told his daughter. “Rich and verdant; you shall love it.”

“It is in the north,” the princess replied. “It will be wet and cold and grey and horrible.” They were perhaps the most polite words Bergil was to hear from her.

*

Lord Korta insisted on entertaining his guests for three days and nights. His hospitality was generous, the food unfamiliar; it did not suit all of the Men of the West, but Damador made short work of everything set before him.

“Few northerners are so comfortable with our food,” Korta noted.

“My wife, Chaya, has got me used to it. She was a slave in the Haradrim contingent during the war,” Damador added.

“Knowing merchants the world over as I do, I am sure that your wife pays a shameful price for her spices,” Korta replied. “I hope you will accept a packet of our finest spices as a gift, from one former slave to another.”

“Father!” Matya looked scandalised.

Korta’s face darkened. “I was a slave-soldier in the warband of Lord Badan; your mother was a concubine of his harem,” he reminded his daughter. “I will not have you forget, simply because we have risen swiftly to an exalted position.”

The princess flushed angrily.

“We keep far fewer slaves than we did once,” Korta explained to Bergin and Damador. “Many of the free lords were killed in the war and passed their possessions to emancipated slave-captains, like myself. With so many former slaves in positions of power…”

“But you still keep slaves?” Bergin noted.

“Apparently these things must be done slowly. Economics, I am told, by the wise men who understand such things. But you shall have a chance to learn how they feel,” Korta went on. “My daughter shall be escorted by five household slaves and a bodyguard of Variag horsewomen.”

Bergin frowned. “I feel uncomfortable bringing slaves to serve a future Princess of Ithilien,” he admitted.

Korta smiled at that. “I think that Prince Faramir will be able to manage that quite neatly,” he assured the Captain.

*

The party set off again on the fourth day after their arrival. Bergin’s men and the Rangers were joined by Princess Matya’s bodyguard, a score of stern shieldmaidens on powerful horses. Many of the Guards were Rohirrim who had followed Lady Eowyn to Ithilien and they were united in their admiration of the Variag steeds; the horsewomen themselves attracted no little admiration. Matya, meanwhile, travelled with her personal slaves in a sumptuous palanquin atop a towering mûmak.

“Your princess does like to be noticed,” Bergin observed. 

The Variag captain, Theselia, glowered at him from beneath the brim of her helmet. “Our mistress enjoys the honour which is her due,” she declared, but Bergin was sure that one eyelid flickered in a wink.

The mûmak travelled as swiftly as any horse, for which Bergin was immensely grateful. If the journey had taken any longer he might have been tempted to murder the princess he was sworn to protect.

From the first, she had insisted on explaining that, as heir to the mighty trade empires of her Badan ancestors – not, as Theselia later noted, that she was even a blood descendent of those ancestors – she should be marrying the Prince of Ithilien at the very least, rather than his son. Bergin had pointed out that the arrangement made by Korta and Faramir in support of the treaty of Emun Arnen stipulated that the wedding of their heirs be  _encouraged_ , not enforced, to which Matya replied that she was obedient to her father’s will and not to legal niceties. Bergin was tactful enough not to suggest that Lord Elboron might seek a halt to the wedding.

Then as they travelled she criticised every element of her escort’s discipline, training and equipage, singling Bergin’s command out for particular derision. Bergin was barely able to contain his anger at her constant barbs, and he knew that the sentiment was common among the men. He kept going only though his devotion to Prince Faramir, and through the company of his fellow officers. Damador was, as ever, a steadfast companion, and Theselia soon proved to hide a lively spirit with her stern façade. 

“What was Prince Faramir  _thinking_?” Damador wondered. They had camped on the northern shore of the Anduin and were all feeling better to be back among the green hills of Ithilien. Princess Matya had insisted that the damp air would give her chills.

“Lord Korta speaks of Prince Faramir with great love and respect,” Theselia assured him. The Variag woman appeared from the shadows beyond the fire, moving as silently as a wraith. Her face was as grim as ever, but her hand rested on her belt well clear of her axe. She took a deep breath. “I find these lands very much to my liking,” she admitted, “although I do not doubt that I shall take some time to grow accustomed to them, just as I did when I was brought to Alkasr al-Badan as a child.”

Bergin gestured for her to join them at the fire and she sat. “Lord Korta is a good man of an ancient and noble race, although he was once a slave like me,” she went on. “I am sure that Prince Faramir sensed that and deemed naught but good would come of an alliance between their houses.”

Bergin shook his head. “Lord Elboroth will soon be a man in his father’s mould. He trains even now as a scout in the Company of Rangers. I am not the judge of men that Prince Faramir is, but I deem that Lord Elboroth will also be of his father’s heart. He shall seek a bride more of your kind than the princess’s; a woman of steel and not of silk.”

“You underestimate her,” Theselia assured him. “Her mother, Lady Nisrûn, was concubine to Lord Badan when Lord Korta was his slave-captain. Lord Korta was given the Lady Nisrûn as a gift for valiant service, to be the slave-of-a-slave, but although it would have been his right as her master simply to take her, he would not touch her until he had won first her trust and then her love. When he returned to Harad a free man – and a man of property, with the right to claim any or all of Lord Badan’s women for his own – he freed all of his slaves and offered each of them the money to set up or marry as they wished. Only then did he ask Lady Nisrûn to be his wife.”

As she spoke, Theselia’s face began to relax into a smile. “I tell you this so that you will understand how Lord Korta loves. When his wife died bringing their daughter into the world, he was devastated, and Matya became his life. She has been accustomed to be denied nothing and her father has made few demands upon her loyalty. Now, he sends her away to marry a man she has never met, for the sake of a promise made before her birth.

“She has strength – I have trained her myself and know her mettle – but she is hurt and hides that with anger.”

“And what of you?” Bergin asked. “How do you come to be a slave of Harad?”

Theselia smiled. “I was fortunate. My homeland is Khand, and most loyal were my people to the Dark Lord. Among my tribe, both boys and girls trained from infancy to ride and to fight, so that we might be sent when the Dark Lord called to die in his service.

My sisters and I were sent to fight in the West in the War of the Ring, but Lord Badan saw our youth – I, youngest of the band, was but ten summers old – and took pity on us. He bought us from our masters and sent us to Near Harad, where, after the war, Lord Korta made us protectors to his wife, and later his child.”

“Does it not trouble you to be a slave?”

“Those who have never tasted freedom seldom yearn for it,” Theselia told him, “but it is true that Lord Korta has whetted out appetites. I hope that my princess weds your prince, for if she stays, I stay, and in Ithilien we can not be slaves.”

Bergin chuckled. “It will be difficult to convince Lord Elboron to accept her as she is.”

“Give her time,” Theselia urged him. “She will be bend if she is not pushed to breaking.”

“I hope so,” Bergin said, surprising himself slightly by the sentiment.

Theselia met his gaze boldly. “As do I.”


	4. Learning Curve

The cries of Princess Matya al-Badan echoed around the garden courtyard of Emyn Arnen; screams of frustration and anger. Her Variag bodyguard looked up for a moment, a dagger half-drawn from her belt. Her amber eyes searched for danger and when she found none, she slid the dagger away.

“You are vexed, my lady,” Lord Elboron asked.

Matya rounded on him, lifting her needle like a javelin. “This is intolerable!” she spat. “I can not do this!”

Elboron rose to his feet. He bent and lifted the dress which Matya had thrown down. “It's a small tear,” he said.

“It would take any of my slaves a moment to fix!” Matya snarled.

Elboron gently took the needle from Matya's hand. He sat and gathered up a spool of thread. “You do not have any slaves,” he reminded her.

“I know. I gave them up when I agreed to remain in this country of yours. If I had gone back to Harad I would not need such a ridiculous, heavy dress in the first place, but if I did then I would have a slave to mend it for me!”

Elboron pulled the thread tight and tied it off. He handed the dress back to Matya. “Good as new.”

“It is not as good as new,” she muttered, picking disconsolately at the neat stitching. “But it will serve.” She reached out and took his hand. Without meeting his eyes she said: “Thank you. You... have shown great patience with me, Lord Elboron; I have not always been appreciative of that. It can not be easy to be bound to wed one so idle.”

“I see a good heart within you, Matya. My father has the gift to see such things and I... I have inherited some small measure of that gift of Numenor. You are no captive and you could have left us at any time and returned to your home, had the desire for slaves and idle comfort been so strong in you. I know how much you strive to be one of us.

“It must be hard for you,” he went on. “To be brought to a strange land to marry a strange man; to learn so many new ways in so short a time.”

“You can not know how hard.”

“I think that I should; if we are to wed, I should understand you. Perhaps we should spend some time in your father's court before we formalise our betrothal?”

The girl's eyes lit up. "You would come with me to Harad?”

“You came to me in Ithilien.”

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “You shall love my country,” she promised. “It is a golden land.”

He gripped her hand gently. “I think that at first I shall hate it, as you hated Ithilien. But I believe that I shall grow to love it, for your sake.”

She smiled at that. “Then while I am there I shall ask no slave to mend my clothes,” she promised, “but leave all to my good lord, who is so skilled with a needle.”

Elboron bowed his head. “As my lady wishes,” he promised, and the watching guards smiled to see the love that grew between them.


	5. Beating the Bounds

Lord Elboron, Captain of Emyn Arnen, stood at the pinnacle of Henneth Annûn and watched with a smile as the Variag contingent scrambled ably up the rocky path. Their faces were wrapped in scarves, their hair covered by their helms, but the Variag were tall, strong women and so the slight figure at the centre of their ranks stood out. He gave a soft whistle and one of his rangers let down the rope ladder for the final stretch.

Theselia, captain of the Variags, mounted the ladder first, she breasted the ledge with a swift, wary bound, but relaxed at the sight of familiar faces. She lowered her scarf and gave a short, trilling whistle, like that of a thrush, to signal her cohort to ascend.

“Well met, Theselia,” Elboron greeted her with a smile. “I see that my father’s guards have been less than discreet with the secrets of Ithilien.”

“Captain Bergin was concerned that my lady might have need of a place of shelter in the wilds,” Theselia replied defensively. “He was concerned only for the safety of the Princess.”

“Of that I am certain,” Elboron replied with a wink, for he was well aware that, loyal as he was, Bergin’s first thought was always for the safety of Theselia herself, whereas his…

He allowed a second Variag to move past before advancing to the top of the ladder and holding out his hand. The smaller horsewoman looked up and her dark eyes smiled between the scarf and the helmet.

“My lady,” he said.

She reached up and clasped his wrist with a strong, slim hand. “My lord.”

*

Elboron’s pleasure in Matya’s arrival was short-lived. “You want to what?” he asked, after she had explained.

“I wish to join your patrol,” she repeated. “I have trained and I have ridden short patrols with my company, but I have never even seen the Eastern borders.”

“My lady, the danger…”

“I have been trained for the danger,” she reminded him. “Theselia has long schooled me in arms for my own defence; the Princess Eowyn has honed my skills and you yourself have taught me the ways of the wild, specifically that I might defend Ithilien at your side.

“My teachers have all praised my abilities,” she added primly. “Or would you tell me that this was merely in deference to my rank?”

He winced inwardly, knowing that she had him bound. He could not deny her request without offering her an insult, and he knew better than to insult his betrothed. She was undoubtedly a skilled warrior, but the hurts she could inflict with her scimitar were as nothing to the devastation she could wreak with a cool glance or a hard word.

“Very well,” he agreed. “You shall ride with us tomorrow.” His mind raced, seeking a patrol route that would not bring her into too great a peril.

“Excellent. Captain Bergin informed us that you would be riding out to the Morgul Vale,” the princess noted.

Elboron groaned. “Captain Bergin should learn to keep his mouth shut,” he suggested.

*

King Elessar had ruled that none should dwell in the Vale for seven years; it had been closer to twenty, and still the valley lay dark and empty.

The destruction of Minas Morgul had not proceeded according to plan. It had taken almost the allotted seven years for Prince Faramir and Princess Eowyn to clear the tower sufficiently to bring in work teams to being the demolition. Even then, the ancient and mighty stonework of the Dunedain proved harder to bring down than it must have been to put up. The Vale was still dominated by the remains of the tower, jutting from the ground at the foot of the cliffs like a rotten tooth.

The Vale beneath the tower was a place of cold, dark mists. Gnarled trees twisted one against the other as though battling for primacy, twisted, claw-like branches grappling at one another or groping across the paths to clutch the passing riders. Elboron watched with a mixture of concern and pride as his bride-to-be manoeuvred her horse nimbly between the trees. He could not be free of the fear that she should not be here, that the danger was too great, but on the other hand he could not remembering the spoiled, angry girl who had come to his father’s house a year ago, and who would not have come here for any inducement, let alone to prove herself.

It was not thought that guided him, but instinct, as he strung and loosed an arrow at a rogue shadow on an overhanging branch. As the goblin fell, the Rangers and Variags wheeled their horses and drew blades and bows.

With a howl of bestial fury, a score of goblins rose up from the mist. Arrows hummed from their strings, felling half-a-dozen before they could begin the charge. When it came, the Variags met the charge, axes whirling to meet orcish scimitars. Horses screamed and blood spilled, and the Rangers loosed once more before drawing their swords and spurring forward to join the melee.

Elboron rode down a goblin as it rushed towards Matya. She had her sword in her hand, but she was not accustomed to combat as the others were. Elboron hewed down a second goblin, but a third rushed form the mists and kept him from riding to Matya’s side. He cried out in alarm, but could not disengage from his opponent as another goblin ran out along the branch above the Haradrima’s head.

The goblin dropped, scimitar flashing, but Matya urged her horse to one side. As the goblin landed, the princess spurred forward and swung her sword up, slashing his throat.

Elboron smote his opponent on the helm, cutting through leather, hide and bone. The press of battle was lessened now, and he was able to ride to his betrothed’s side. Matya looked stunned, as though startled by the blood on her blade.

“Out!” Elboron called. “Ride out!”

Horses wheeled and the patrol rode hard, forcing through the thinned goblin ranks. The Variag turned again and held the line, giving the Rangers time to ride on, turn and give cover to the horsewomen’s retreat. Black-fletched arrows followed and felled Harth’s mare, but one of the Variag pulled him across her saddle as they passed and then all were riding on and up and out of the Morgul Vale.

For a moment they paused to survey their casualties. Three Rangers and two Variags were injured, but none badly, they had lost Harth’s mare and two other horses were injured beyond use; had they been further into the Vale it might have gone much harder on them. Quickly, Elboron ordered men off the injured steeds. He spoke soft words to the horses and sent them on their way.

“Theselia; take the horses and ride for Emyn Arnen,” he ordered. “We will harry those who follow and return to Henneth Annun on foot to await reinforcements.”

“For a goblin raiding band?” Theselia asked.

Harth shook his head. “This happens from time to time; goblins springing up from the pits beneath the ruined tower. Uruks will follow if we do not enter and put the place to fire again.”

“The sorcery there runs deep and dark,” Elboron agreed. “My lady…”

Matya nodded her head. “I shall go with Theselia,” she said, chastened.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, “but know that you have acquitted yourself well today.” He took the sword from her hand and cleaned it before returning it to its scabbard. “If you wish to ride with the reinforcements, I should be proud to fight at your side once more.”

She smiled wanly. “I think I may bide this time,” she assured him, “but another day I shall be at your side, my lord.”

He bowed to her. “Then I shall fear naught to that side,” he replied.


End file.
